


Mr. Nice Guy

by rabidchild67



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Animal Shelters, First Dates, LOTS OF PUPPIES, M/M, Puppies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-09-15 19:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9252506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: It was hard enough for Chris to grow up the only norm in a family of supes. So why does he have to develop the world’s most inconvenient superpower now, when he’s finally met a super-cute guy? Living in Metrocity sucks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [semperama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperama/gifts).



Chris should have expected it, really: the powers. 

You don’t grow up in Metrocity and not think it could happen to you. The first thing they taught in elementary schools was basic Chemical Vat Spill Identification and Remediation skills. Hell, there was even a song: 

_I love you,_  
_You love me,_  
_Pay attention carefully!_

_If it’s green and it’s glowy,_  
_Then you know just what to do,_  
_Call mom, superpowers aren’t for you!_

What he wasn’t prepared for was the form his powers would take.

“Holy shit, what the hell happened?” he said when he woke in the hospital. Then he freaked out because he couldn’t see anything—had he been struck blind, would he have the powers of some darkness-dwelling underbeing, like echolocation or whatever? 

“Sorry, sorry,” said his nurse, opening the blinds to the room and letting the sunlight in. “We never know what to expect when these accidents happen. If it makes you feel any better, you don’t glow in the dark.”

“It doesn’t, really.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s OK. How did I survive, anyway? The last thing I remember was blacking out before sinking into a vat of neon pink goo.”

“Lucky for you, MEGA Man(TM) was there to save you.”

“Oh shit, really?” 

“Yeah! He’s so awesome—I got him to autograph your cast for you before he left. I mean, I figured since you were unconscious and all. I mean… MEGA Man(TM)!” She did that little bounce-and-clap thing Chris had grown up seeing women—and not a few men—direct at his father’s alter ego his entire life. 

“Bitchin’,” he said, trying and failing to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. 

“I didn't think you’d want to miss out,” she went on, running her fingers over the signature Chris could now see on the cast encasing his wrist, written in large, perfectly-rendered Garamond. He could almost see his dad’s disapproval in the hasty scrawl, felt it in waves—he was going to catch hell for this later, that much was certain.

A moment later, a doctor breezed in, picked up Chris’s chart and glanced at it cursorily. “Nurse, has he regained consciousness yet?”

Chris and the nurse glanced at each other quickly. “I mean, hello? Yes?” Chris said, waving his uninjured hand.

“Nurse?”

The nurse gestured at Chris as if his consciousness was the obvious thing it was. 

“Nurse Williams, I asked you a direct question, are you sassing me?” the doc asked, suddenly petulant. He was an older fellow, and short, with a paisley bowtie at his throat and his name—Dr. Ascott—custom embroidered on his lab coat.

“No, Doctor!” she said, shocked.

“Has the patient regained consciousness?”

“Yes, Doctor,” she replied, chastened.

“Has Neuro been called?”

She pressed her lips together uncertainly.

“Yes?” Dr. Asshat asked impatiently.

“Well, you’re the neurologist on call, Doctor.”

“Yes, and it’s about time!” the man said before examining Chris. After five minutes of poking, prodding, and shining a penlight in his eyes, he made some notations in Chris’s chart.

“You know, you didn’t have to be rude,” Chris said to him as he laid the chart down. “She was only trying to do her best, after all.”

The doctor scoffed and headed for the door with a scowl on his face. 

“You could at least apologize,” Chris added. He hated seeing people in positions of power being rude to those with no power to defend themselves. As much as he found his father to be pedantic and occasionally insufferable, his ethos had instilled in Chris a basic sense of decency.

The doc stopped short at the door, turned, and faced the nurse, an expression on his face Chris had only ever expected to see on the very constipated. “Nurse Williams, I… apologize if my manner appeared to be rude to you,” the man said through gritted teeth. “It has been a long and tiring day and my temper got the better of me. You are a valued member of staff, and I have always admired those pink kitten scrubs you often wear.”

“Thank you, Doctor!” she said before the doctor turned and ran from the room, down the hallway toward the elevators. 

Of course, that wasn't the moment it became clear to Chris exactly how fucked he was. That would take a few weeks, weeks spent agonizing over when and how his powers might manifest, because what were giant vats of neon pink goo for, anyway? All that time, his mom hovered worriedly, sewing machine primed and ready to make him a super suit on demand. 

"Christopher, hold still I just need to measure your inseam."

"No, Mom, that is not a place where a guy likes to have his mother's hands," he said, dancing away. 

"Oh come on, I used to diaper you, I don't think there's anything I'm not prepared for."

"Maybe I'm the unprepared one," he said, suppressing a whole-body shudder. 

"Fine, I'll just measure those cargo pants you wear all the time. They seem to fit you right."

"They're a little tight in the crotch," he said, wrinkling his nose. 

"Oh? Then they'll be perfect! That's an area where you'll want to pull focus anyway, dear."

"MOM!"

"What? I'm hip with the kids today. You'll want to attract the girls’ attention. Or boys, dear, you know I don’t judge."

“Mom!”

“Oh my, how attractive your father was in his early super suit—now there was a man who could fill out a pair of tights, you know what I’m saying?” 

Chris wished his power was allowing the ground to swallow him whole, but alas he was to be disappointed. But having his latest measurements was next to useless if powers never manifested. Would his super suit—if he needed one—need to be flame retardant? Bulletproof? Red? It was hard to predict, so she kept bringing fabric swatches home and holding them up to his face to see if they worked with his complexion. 

"This one will make your eyes pop! And it comes in UltraStretch and Reflect-O-Max versions, can you believe it?"

"Oh my god," Chris said, grabbing his backpack and hightailing it out of there. He was on his way across town for his shift at the animal shelter when he turned a corner and walked right into a robbery. 

It wasn’t his robbery; that is, he wasn’t the victim, not initially.

“Yo, give me the purse!” a short, skinny kid who looked to be about 15 yelled at a middle-aged woman. He had one hand on the purse’s straps, and in the other he held a rather large handgun; a tote lay on the ground between them, books spilling out of it across the pavement.

The woman, who flinched away from the kid as he brandished the weapon, nevertheless was either unwilling or unable to let go of the purse. “Nooooo!” she screamed, her eyes rolling around in terror. “No! No! No!”

“Just give it up! Don’t make me shoot you, you fat, ugly bitch!”

“Oh hey now, there’s no call for that kind of language,” Chris said, almost before thinking.

Two sets of eyes turned on Chris followed by, not unsurprisingly, the barrel of a very lethal-looking weapon. Chris raised his hands.

“What was that?” the kid sneered. 

Chris immediately regretted his outburst—but something inside him, some strange compulsion, took hold and made him go on. When he spoke, he could feel it building up uncomfortably inside him, “I mean, it’s bad enough you’re robbing this poor woman, you don’t have to insult her too,” he said.

The kid’s eyes boggled. “Is it me, or have we all forgotten the significance of the roles we’re playing in this scenario?” He raised the gun and pointed it right in the center of Chris’s forehead.

Chris flinched, raising his hands higher. “Nope, you’re right, you’re absolutely right, I’ll keep my mouth shut.” He pressed his lips together as if to demonstrate. His silence lasted two seconds. “But nope, nope.” His words tumbled out in a rush—no, it was more like they were forced out, spooling from his mouth like one of those magicians’ handkerchief tricks. “You know what you’re doing is wrong, right?”

“Yeah?”

“And you’re likely scarring this poor woman emotionally for life?”

“Really?”

“Well, what you said was pretty mean,” she said with a sniffle, taking the opportunity to tighten her grip on her bag. 

“It’s better than getting shot,” the kid pointed out.

“I mean, naturally,” Chris agreed, considering the point a moment. He shook his head. “Except that no, there’s never room for rudeness. You really should apologize.”

“What?”

“Apologize to this nice lady.” Chris couldn’t believe how commanding he was being, given the circumstances, but as soon as his words were out, he could see how they landed on the kid. A look of shame and remorse came over him and he lowered the hand that held the gun. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t say sorry to me, say it to her.” 

“I’m sorry!” the kid said, tears filling his eyes suddenly. 

Chris gestured at the books on the ground. “Look—she was carrying a bunch of kids’ books and everything. Are you a teacher?”

“Children’s librarian,” she said, staring at her erstwhile robber, whose lower lip was now quivering dangerously.

“Aww, see? She was probably going to go read to some little kids.”

“My mom used to take me to the li-berry,” the kid said miserably. 

“What was your favorite?” she asked.

The kid smiled wistfully, remembering. “The Matchbox car catalog. And Dr. Seuss.”

“I like Dr. Seuss,” the librarian said, taking a step closer to him, a kind smile on her face. “Horton Hears a Who?”

The kid blinked. “Who?”

“Exactly.”

“See?” Chris said. “We’re all just people here. Now, give me the gun, will ya, kid?” He stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, easing his hand gently around the kid’s wrist. Despite the tears in his eyes, the kid smiled at him, giving it up easily. “That’s right.” Chris tried to keep his voice calm as he stepped back, pointing the gun at the ground. “There’s no need for anyone to get hurt, is there?”

“No,” the kid agreed.

“Ever,” Chris added, his voice coming out with a strange, hollow resonance to it, like he was speaking through a megaphone.

The kid looked at him, eyes strangely intent on Chris’s. A light seemed to flash in his eyes, though it might have been a passing school bus. “Not ever,” he said quietly.

Their eyes held a moment longer—no more—and Chris staggered back a step, suddenly exhausted, and with a vicious headache throbbing behind his right eye. In front of him, the robber was on the ground picking up his erstwhile victim’s books and replacing them in her tote bag. A moment later, they left, arm in arm, heading in the direction of the public library.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris and Zach meet-cute. Also: puppies.

“You’re _late_ ,” John said curtly, looking at the wall clock pointedly.

“I _know_ ,” Chris said, slouching through the door and heading immediately for the water cooler beside the front desk. He grabbed the quart-sized mason jar John kept pens in, dumped everything out of it, then filled it with water from the cooler. He downed it in a quartet of large gulps, then filled it again. 

“Thirsty?” John asked, eyebrow inching toward his hairline. 

Chris swallowed half of it before taking a breath. “I just almost got shot,” he said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. 

“What?! Where?”

“I dunno, State and Maple? Some stupid kid trying to hold up this woman. Here.” He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the pistol he'd taken from the kid. It looked a lot smaller now that he wasn't staring down its barrel. He tossed it onto the desk.

John jumped back two feet. “Jesus, Pine!”

“Relax, it’s not even loaded.”

“Where'd you get that thing? You didn't shoot the kid?!”

“What? No, I took it off him. Idiot, he couldn't'a been more than 14 or 15.”

“You took it off him? What the hell?”

“Well, I wasn't gonna let him keep it, guns are dangerous.” 

“Ya think?”

“Anyway, that's why I'm late.” 

The truth of it was Chris desperately wanted to go home, but didn't think he could face his mother. The encounter with the kid had clearly been the manifestation of some sort of mind control power, and he just didn't trust himself alone with anyone close to him. So he came to work at the shelter, knowing it'd more or less be just him and the animals for the next four hours. 

He finished the rest of the water, sipping more normally. Whatever had just happened, he felt as drained and depleted as if he'd run a marathon through the desert. Speaking of, “Hey, is there any more of that birthday cake left over from the other day?”

John glanced at the trash can, where Chris could clearly see the bakery box John's girlfriend had brought him, perched atop the usual collection of empty shipping boxes and other trash. “It was all dried out and gross, so I threw it out.” 

“That's ok,” Chris said, descending on the thing like a pack of wild dogs. Sure, the pastry cream filling was now the consistency of old rubber bands, but that only added to the dried toothpaste-like consistency of the frosting. 

“You are gross, Pine.”

Chris brushed crumbs from his shirt. “I am not proud of myself.” He was starting to feel better, though, and his headache throbbed a little less. 

“Anyway?” John went on, ignoring him, “Mama Leto needs feeding, and maybe a break from the kids if you feel like it. And if you could take the trash out, that'd be great.” 

“Sure thing, boss.”

“All right. I'm gonna go then. Kerri texted a picture of a Victoria's Secret bag and, well...”

Chris laughed. “I get it. Off you go, give her a good time.”

“Don't I always?”

“That's not what she said.”

“Fuck you, man,” John said with a laugh as he grabbed his keys and left. 

Swallowing the last of the cake, Chris stowed his own bag, stripped off his jacket, and got to work. Pulling an apron on, he pushed through the half-door to the back office. It was a small yet tidy space where wall-mounted counters along one wall acted as desktops for the shelter’s meager staff. A pair of old file cabinets and the door to the dog kennels dominated another wall, and in the corner beneath the window was the object of Chris’s immediate attentions. 

Leto, a Schnauzer mix with large, intelligent eyes and a sweet disposition, rose from the impromptu whelping box Chris had fashioned from the bottom of a large shipping box. She’d been dropped off the month before by a friendly neighborhood resident who’d found her wandering around near the freeway. When they’d taken her to the vet to be checked out, he pronounced her pregnant and about to pop, and by the next morning the _Metrocity Anipal Rescue_ was host to a litter of five tiny balls of black fluff. Leto, a very young mother who was malnourished to boot, had been ill-equipped to deal with the demands of five pups, so Chris had taken their care personally, making sure she had more than enough to eat, staying with her overnight the first two weeks in case she needed anything, and keeping track of the pups’ weight, food intake, and every sniffle and grunt. His diligence paid off, as the pups were now happy and healthy. When it came time to adopt them out, he knew he was going to have a rough time of it. 

“There’s my mama,” Chris said in a low voice, bending over to pet her. She immediately hopped out of the box, dropping to the floor to present her belly for him to rub and he crouched down to oblige. 

Leto’s absence from the box did not go unnoticed long, as the pups roused themselves and peeked out at him, bleary-eyed. “Uh-oh, the kids are up, should we take this opportunity to spring you?” He led her into the outer office and closed the door behind him. He fixed her dinner and set it on the floor, leaving her in peace while he went back to deal with her unruly offspring. 

It shouldn’t have been surprising how much mess five growing pups could leave, but Chris was always astounded. By the time he was finished swapping out the soiled wee-wee pads that lined the whelping box, the pups were fully awake, exploring the back room on still-occasionally-unsteady legs and breaking into play-fights whenever they encountered each other. They had small bits of colorful ribbon tied around their necks so he could tell them apart, so when one of them started whining because she was all alone, he could immediately tell who it was.

“Whatever is the matter, Miss Redmond?” he asked, picking up the pup with the red ribbon. “Are you sad to be alone?” Her crying soon subsided as he held her and she nuzzled against him, eventually crawling up his throat to lick at his face. 

“Ew! Puppy breath!” he giggled, pulling his face away—but not too far, because puppy kisses were still one of the best things in the world. When her licks crossed the threshold into small nibbles, however, he pulled her squirming little body away. Undeterred, she kept at it, nearly tipping out of his hands. 

“Better be careful!” someone said, startling Chris into clutching Miss R. closer. 

The puppy took advantage of the situation and renewed her nibbling up the side of Chris's jaw. “Ow!”

“I'm sorry, but it didn't seem like anyone else was here?” the guy said. He stood just on the other side of the half door, looking tentative and apologetic. He was about Chris's age or a bit older, tall, with dark hair, pale skin, and luminous brown eyes like melted chocolate—and wow was he still hungry? “I’ve been here a few minutes but didn't see anyone, so I just came back here when I heard you? I can go back...” He gestured back to the reception area. 

“No, that's ok,” Chris said, scrambling to his feet and carefully avoiding the swarm of tiny black puppy bodies. “I was, uh...” he shook his foot to dislodge a pup who was attempting to climb his pant leg, “busy.” 

“I can see that,” the guy replied, amused. 

“Now stop that Mr. Goldfarb!” Chris admonished the pup on his foot, who had started pulling at Chris’s shoelace. “We have a guest!” The pup opened its mouth, its tiny tongue panting, and let out an enthusiastic bark. He was soon joined by Mr. Greene and Miss Pinkerton, who paused their roughhousing to join in on the puppy chorus. 

“Looks like dissent in the ranks, Captain,” Mr. Chocolate Eyes said with a grin. 

Chris put his free hand—the one with the broken wrist, still encased in a cast even though it felt fine—on his hip. “See here, this behavior will not be tolerated. There will be floggings!”

Naturally, he was ignored and soon had four small, warm bodies trying to climb his legs—thank god they weren’t kittens—and if he put a single foot wrong, he’d risk breaking a tiny toe or worse. 

“Do you want some help there?”

“All I can get,” Chris said unsteadily. 

The guy entered, grinning, and bent over to gather up two of the puppies. They assailed him with licks the moment he stood up. “Oh now, that's the stuff,” he said, clearly delighted. 

Chris lifted his foot, puppy and all, and pivoted, depositing Mr. Goldfarb back in the whelping box where he barked at him indignantly. Chris picked up Mr. Greene and dropped him gently inside, and the two began to wrestle and mouth at each other. 

“Typical day at the office?” Chris’s guest asked. 

“Lately, yes. It's not every week we have a litter of puppies on hand, so it makes it a bit more fun. Sorry for not being out there when you came in. I didn't even hear you. I'm Chris by the way.” He held out his free, non-cast-bearing hand to shake.

“I’m Zach,” the other man said, juggling the puppies together in one arm so he could shake.

“Sorry,” Chris said, taking one from him and depositing it—as well as Miss Redmond—back in the box with their littermates. 

“Don't apologize, it was worth it because I get to play with these little guys!” He lifted the one that remained in his arms to his face, and it renewed its licking. He screwed up his face. “Puppy breath though—ew.” 

“Yeah, it's not the most pleasant thing.” 

“Maybe the only bad thing.” 

“I wouldn't rule out poop either. These guys still let loose wherever they are when the need strikes. It can be a challenge to keep up some days.” 

“I can imagine. Are they up for adoption?” He flipped the pup over and cradled him, rubbing a finger on his chest. The pup responded by gnawing on his finger.

“Not for another 4 weeks,” Chris replied. “You can put in an application for one if you want. That is, I assume you're in here to look for a dog—most people are. We have some really nice cats too. And buns sometimes, just not right now.” 

“Buns?”

“Bunnies, sorry to spring the technical jargon on you, ha-ha.”

“Oh, that's ok. I thought you meant _your_ buns.” He glanced pointedly at Chris's ass for a moment before returning his attention to the puppy in his arms. 

“No, I wasn't—oh!” Chris stammered. “Oh, ok ha-ha! _My_ buns, I get it. No, um, no.” 

“You're blushing.” 

“Yeah well, hot guys sometimes make me flustered.”

His smile was stunning. “You think I'm hot?”

“Did I say hot? I meant potential pet owners. Or something else. Probably.”

“Then I think you're in the wrong business.”

“Can we forget I said that?”

“Sure,” Zach said kindly. “How about we say… that you’ll let me buy you a cup of coffee after you get off work tonight?”

“Oh, um…” Chris remembered the family dinner that night, the importance of which his mother had impressed upon him all morning. _“If you miss another one, I will personally find you and tie you to your chair, Chrissy, I mean it!”_ The scary part was that she literally would. “I need to get home right away.” 

“Another time, then.” 

Zach’s dark eyes actually seemed disappointed; it emboldened Chris. “Tomorrow?”

Zach’s face brightened. “Tomorrow! Tomorrow works.” They smiled at each other. “What time?”

“I get off at seven.”

“I’ll be here at 6:30, then.”

“6:30?”

“I’ll want to put in an application for this little guy.” The whole time he’d been petting and cuddling the tiny puppy in his arms, who had taken a very real liking to Zach in return. “What’s his name?”

Chris glanced at the ribbon tied around the pup’s neck. “That’s Mr. Klein.”

Zach laughed. “That’s an interesting name for a puppy.”

“Well, I mean, they’re not supposed to have any names, since their owners will change them anyway, but I can never just refer to them as Puppy A or whatever, so I gave them names to go with the color of ribbon each one has.” He pointed at each puppy as he called out their names. “That one of there is Miss Redmond. The one she’s lying on top of is Mr. Greene. That’s Miss Pinkerton, and that pudgy, sleepy boy over there is Mr. Goldfarb.”

Zach looked confused. “And Mr. Klein?” 

“I couldn’t think of a name that had purple in it.”

“Redmond, Greene, Pinkerton, Goldfarb, and Klein—sounds like a law firm or something.”

“Best in town, man. And you can pay them in Snausages!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Pines. Not your usual suburban family.

Chris was in a good mood for the rest of his shift. Making a date with a hot guy had a way of taking the unpleasantness out of having to scoop nearly a dozen litter boxes, he reflected. Luckily, he had no other problems on his way home, though as he walked up the sidewalk in front of the Pine residence, he thought he could see some flashes of lightning or something coming from the northwestern quadrant of the city. 

“I think there’s a storm coming,” he observed to his mother as he walked through to the kitchen. She stood at the island putting finishing touches on the appetizers. Tonight’s family dinner was unlike their usual get-together—tonight Katie was bringing her fiancé along for the festivities, so the menu would be more fancy than usual. Chris was looking forward to the food if not the company.

“What was that sweetie?” Gwynne Pine responded more than a full minute later, by which time Chris already had his head buried in the fridge, looking for something to drink. 

He looked up, beer in hand. “What?”

“What?”

They stared at each other a moment. “Did you not hear what I said? Mom!”

“I'm sorry, darling, you know how I get when the seasons change!” She gestured broadly with both hands and sure enough, a crab cake went flying. A vine, dark green and lustrous, shot out from somewhere inside the cardigan she wore, caught it before it hit the floor, and placed it back on the platter. “You see! I'm all distracted!” She clutched the edge of the counter, shaking her head as the tendril receded. 

Chris closed the fridge and went to her, kissing her on the cheek as he righted the garland of seasonal flowers she wore on her head. This week it was forsythia, the yellow blossoms bringing out golden highlights in her dark hair. “Better get it out of your system before Captain Perfect Teeth gets here. Wouldn’t want him to let that cat out of the bag, would we, now?” He reached across the counter for the bottle opener. “Lord knows how the famous Rip Pierce would take it.” He fumbled to use the thing with his hand in its cast. He sighed, frustrated. “Rip Pierce, what kind of name is that anyway?” He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned; a helpful tendril snaked along his arm, wrapped itself around the bottle’s neck, and flicked the cap off effortlessly. “I’ll tell you what kind,” Chris said to its quivering foliage as it receded to a few inches from his face. “It’s not a name, it’s two imperative sentences!”

“What was that, hon?” Gwynne asked, glancing up from her cookbook and blinking at him.

Chris looked scandalized— _did she ever listen_? The vine waved in the air, as if shaking its head, and recoiled itself back inside his mother’s sweater. 

“You worry too much!” Gwynne pre-empted him before he could speak.

“Talk to your daughter, it's her weird hang up, not mine. I can’t believe she's still not out to the dude. I mean how many times has Dynagirl saved his weak ass in the last six months?” 

Katie’s fiancé, a war hero Air Force Captain and head of some international anti-crime taskforce, often found his missions a target for evil-doers—supes _and_ norms, it didn't seem to matter these days. “When's she gonna tell him, anyway? Is she?”

“Of course she is, Christopher, don't be a silly-billy. I didn't tell your father my alter ego until after he popped the question.”

“That’s my point. Wasn't Gaia MEGA Man’sTM arch-nemesis for a while there?”

She sniffed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Mom, come on, don't make me show you the archive footage. You know that the Internet is a thing that exists, right?”

Chris's parents—or rather their super-powered alter egos—had been on opposite sides of the surprisingly mutable line between good and evil back in the day. Drawing her power from the Earth itself, Gwynne Pine’s alter, Gaia, had been quite a formidable opponent for MEGA ManTM, whose “Justice and Truth First” motto—often delivered at the business end of a red-gloved fist—didn't jibe with her “Protect Mother Earth at All Costs” values at all. It wasn’t until the Captains of Industry united in a plot to exploit a remote portion of rainforest for reasons Chris—and history for that matter—still weren’t clear on that they realized they could work together in harmony. 

“Your sister will tell Rip in her own time, and it’s not for you to say anything about it.”

“I can still have an opinion, though.”

She pinned him with a dark green gaze. “I suppose if you’ve got nothing to hide, then of course you can.” 

Chris blanched. “Was that the doorbell?” he muttered and skedaddled.

Katie and Rip had indeed arrived, looking every inch the perfect couple they were. Tall and broad of shoulder, Captain Rip Pierce of the Worldwide Threat Assessment Federation was the kind of person who inspired anyone who met him to follow his leadership, a man whose patriotism, honor, and loyalty were unassailable, and whose acts of bravery so well-documented, there were actual comic books written about him. He paused on the threshold as if waiting for something; uncannily, a car passed outside, reflecting the light of the setting sun at the exact moment Rip smiled, making his teeth actually sparkle. 

“HEY THERE, CHRIS, HOW ARE YOU THIS FINE EVENING?” Rip greeted in his usual booming tone.

Chris found it helpful to respond in a soft voice, if for no other reason than the contrast. “Fine, Rip, and you?”

“I DUNNO, I CAN’T SEEM TO SHAKE THIS COLD.” He coughed long-sufferingly into a meaty paw.

“I can’t believe a germ would have the audacity.”

“Be nice,” Katie muttered, leaning forward to kiss Chris hello. 

“What, can’t you invent a cure for him?”

She gave him a look; the fact she squandered her brilliant scientific mind and talents to be what amounted to Rip’s personal assistant was a constant source of annoyance to Chris. “I would, but then he suffers so prettily,” she caressed Rip’s cheek fondly.

Rip, for all his frustrating perfection, doted on Katie in a way even Chris could find no fault with; he grinned at Katie, besotted. “YOU KNOW I LIKE IT WHEN YOU NURSE ME, BABE.”

Chris tried not to think of alternative definitions of the word ‘nurse’ and preceded them into the kitchen.

“Rip! Katie, darling, how lovely to see you,” Gwynne said, accepting kisses on the cheek from them both. “Crab dip?”

A short time later, Chris sat stuffing his face with crudité—if only to keep himself awake—while Rip shared details of his latest mission overseas. “SO THERE I WAS, TRAPPED ON THE SIDE OF A MOUNTAIN WITH AN AVALANCHE IMMINENT. I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO SURE OF THE INEVITABILITY OF MY OWN DEMISE BEFORE, I DON’T MIND TELLING YOU.”

“Oh my, how very upsetting, you poor dear,” Gwynne said. “You know, I’m always saying if we don’t pay attention to the effect global warming is having on world weather systems, all sorts of horrible disasters are bound to happen. Why, it makes me want to _do_ something!”

“EVERY LITTLE BIT HELPS, MRS. P. YOU KNOW YOU DON’T HAVE TO SIT BACK AND WAIT FOR BIG ORGANIZATIONS LIKE WTAF TO ACT, YOU KNOW YOU AND YOUR GIRLFRIENDS COULD START A PETITION TO RAISE AWARENESS. OR A FUNDRAISER.”

“Yeah, mom, a bake sale would really do the trick,” Chris snarked, then winced as Katie elbowed him in the ribs. In her day, Gaia had been either a beloved defender of the environment or a dangerous eco-terrorist, depending on whose side you were on. Chris recalled how she’d once used her powers to grow a thick, impenetrable forest—overnight—around the breeding grounds of an endangered species of woodpecker to prevent a developer from bulldozing the area. 

“Back to your story, Rip honey?” Katie prompted, giving Chris the stinkeye.

“WELL, LUCKILY DYNAGIRL ARRIVED, AND USED HER SUPER STRENGTH AND HEAT VISION TO DIG A TRENCH TO DIVERT THE BULK OF THE AVALANCHE, OR I WOULD HAVE BEEN DONE FOR.”

“Wow, it’s a good thing she always seems to be around, huh?” Chris said.

“I am beginning to wonder if I should be jealous,” Katie said, batting her lashes. 

“I WOULDN’T WORRY ABOUT IT, BABE. I MEAN, SHE MIGHT BE HOT AND ALL, BUT YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE FOR ME.”

“What time was dinner supposed to be?” Chris said, trying desperately to hide his glee at the sour look that passed over Katie’s face. He made a show of looking at a wristwatch he was not wearing.

“I told your father 7:00,” Gwynne said, glancing at the kitchen clock, perturbed. “It’s after 8:00.” A pair of green vines slowly emerged from her blouse and up the side of her neck.

“Mom!” Chris hissed, gesturing. She tsked with annoyance and they disappeared as the front door crashed open and closed again.

“Hon, I’m ho-ooome!” a loud voice yodeled.

“There he is!” Gwynne chirped, all annoyance disappearing immediately as she went to greet her husband.

Chris rolled his eyes at Katie, who looked away, bored. Their father’s penchant for well-timed dramatic entrances—often accompanied by a cringe-inducing pun—was as well-known to them as their names, and for Chris it was often a source of embarrassment. 

From his spot beside the kitchen island, Chris could see his parents’ fervent greeting as his dad swept Gwynne into a graceful dip and kissed her lovingly. She reached out with one delicate hand and fondly caressed the side of his manly cheek as he returned her to her feet, then wiped a smudge of lipstick from his face. 

“Busy day at the office, Daddy?” Katie asked as Bob entered, bussing her on the cheek.

“No more than usual,” he replied. “I’ll tell you, that bonehead Captain Nemo had better keep those amphibious amateurs of his in line or—“

“Language, dear,” Gwynne said, glancing pointedly at Rip. 

“Oh yeah, mixed company.” Gwynne handed him a martini and swept away toward the stove to put the finishing touches on dinner. “How are you this evening, Rip?”

“A-OK MR. PINE, SIR, THOUGH I WAS JUST TELLING THE FAMILY ABOUT MY RECENT RUN-IN WITH AN AVALANCHE. SCARY STUFF.”

“Yes, well, they do tend to happen at the most inconvenient times, don’t they? Glad to see you’re none the worse for wear, eh? Wouldn’t want to make a widow out of my daughter before the wedding’s even done, would you?”

“I SURE HOPE NOT.”

“Why so late tonight, Daddy?” Katie asked.

Bob’s face darkened with pique. “Yet another supervillain seems to have risen to power—or is trying to at any rate.” He drained his martini dramatically. Chris knew it was just for show—alcohol didn’t have the same effect on his father’s alien biology as other people. “Caused a hell of a backup for downtown traffic until MEGA ManTM gave him the business end of his lightning ray—sure showed him a thing or two about causing a ruckus at rush hour, let me tell you.”

“Is that what all that thunder was earlier, then?” said Gwynne. “I was rather hoping for rain, it’s been such a dry spring.”

“WAS THERE MUCH DAMAGE?”

Bob shrugged. “A few buildings are missing more of their windows than usual, but otherwise it’s all right. And a few city busses may have to be replaced.”

“Oh dear.”

“Just a typical Friday night in Metrocity, I suppose,” Chris muttered, getting up to fetch himself a beer from the fridge, his third. Being half human, he luckily _could_ feel the effects of a few cold ones, and he suddenly wanted to feel a few more. “I don’t suppose this arch villain had a name, did he? Or were you too busy dodging flying busses with the rest of the innocent bystanders?” 

“No one was hurt,” Bob pointed out testily. “But I did catch a name—‘Indominus,’ or something, he said. Tall fellow. Disappeared pretty quickly once MEGA ManTM appeared, though.” Bob delivered the last sentence with a self-satisfied smirk. Chris expected he’d see some full-on mayhem on the 11:00 news later. He snorted, shaking his head. 

“What are you laughing at, son?”

“I’m sorry, but it’s the name: ‘Indominus.’ It doesn’t mean what he might think it means.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s pretty bad Latin—the prefix ‘in’ negates the root noun ‘dominus’ which means king, or master. It’s the opposite of the master of anything.”

Bob grinned. “Sometimes I think the money your mother and I spent on that hoity-toity college of yours has actually paid off.”

“Now, Bob,” Gwynne began.

Bob made an innocent face. “What? I’m just saying, who majors in English Lit, I ask you?”

“Writers, statesmen, journalists,” Chris said under his breath. 

Katie leaned into him and kneaded his shoulder soothingly, murmuring, “You know how prickly he gets when one gets away. Ignore him.”

“It’s getting harder and harder.”

She kissed him on the jaw and deftly changed the subject. “So Mom, I was thinking of going back to Beautiful Bridal tomorrow to look at that mermaid gown thing tomorrow—wanna come?”

“Darling, why must you hurt me so? You know I’d make your gown in a heartbeat!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out Chris’s powers? Are pretty kickass.

“Pine, do me a favor and take the deposits to the bank?” John said the next day. It was a slow, weekday morning; an intermittent drizzle made whatever foot traffic they might have gotten nonexistent. 

Bored, Chris jumped at the chance to at least do something. This close to lunch time, he could stop at his favorite taco truck on the way back. Shoving the envelope full of checks and cash John handed him into a pocket, he paused at the doorway to pull his hoodie up over his head to ward off the rain. It wasn’t heavy enough to warrant an umbrella, but he didn't want to get wet either. Besides, the bank was only two blocks away.

The First Bank of Metrocity branch was situated at the corner of two major streets: State and Main, conveniently located for the majority of the town’s downtown businesses. This meant the place would be booming at just about any hour, but today was a Friday, so it was even more crowded. 

Chris hurried to the door ahead of an elderly couple so he could get the door for them. The man held a large umbrella over himself and a woman Chris presumed was his wife, who used a walker. “Thank you, young man,” the woman said, giving him a sweet smile.

“It’s no trouble,” Chris replied.

“Hey, thanks, man,” said a younger businessman who swept in behind them. He was followed by a woman too distracted by something on her cell phone to say anything, and a teenaged girl and her mother, who offered to let Chris go first. 

“It’s no problem,” Chris assured her with a smile before walking through the door himself. 

Despite it being a cool day, the bank's air conditioning was cranked, and Chris shivered once he got inside. Burrowing down into his sweatshirt, he pulled the hood down closer around his face for added comfort. 

Pulling out the envelope John had given him, he made his way over to one of the small desks where the deposit slips were. Predictably, two of the pens-on-a-chain were missing and the third was out of ink. Luckily, he remembered he had a pen of his own, one of the free ones the shelter handed out as swag. He’d used it earlier that morning to relieve an itch inside his cast, then tucked it behind an ear. He’d forgotten all about it until now. 

Across from him, a young woman with a baby in a sling across her body was struggling with the pen on her side. “These things are ridiculous,” she muttered, trying to write something. “Oh god, of course it's out of ink. I'm already late and look at that line. Jeez!”

“Here, use mine,” Chris said, handing his over. 

“Thank you, that’s so nice,” she said, barely glancing at him as she filled out the paperwork.

“It’s nothing,” Chris said, “you’ve got your hands full.” He indicated the baby, a boy of perhaps six months, who smiled back with toothless enthusiasm. 

Chris got on the back of a line that snaked through a long maze of velvet ropes. A moment later, the young mom arrived, and he waved her to get in front of him. 

“What? No, really.”

“You just look like you could use a break.” 

“How are you so nice?” 

He shrugged and she turned around. 

The line progressed, slowly, since only two of the four tellers on duty seemed to be taking care of customers; the others performed mysterious tasks at their stations, heads down. He occupied his wait time by making faces at the young woman’s baby, who alternated grinning happily at Chris with ducking his face behind his mom’s shoulder in a game of peekaboo. 

When Chris had nearly reached the front of the line, a loud noise caused him—and the rest of the people around him—to jump. 

“All right, this is a robbery!” someone wearing a ski mask and carrying a shot gun shouted, blasting a hole into the ceiling to match the other one he'd just made. “ _Nobody move_!”

Chris froze, squared his body, and raised his hands, hoping to present the least threatening stance possible. Most Metrocity locals were well educated on how to behave in any situation—the city’s Bureau of Public Safety had a hefty budget set aside for community awareness to make sure of it—so whether the threat came from Super Quake, the Hive Queen, or run-of-the-mill thieves like these guys appeared to be, most folks knew exactly what to do. The best course of action in this case was to follow instructions and literally not try any funny stuff. Even the tellers opened their cash drawers for inspection and stepped back, hands resting atop their heads. The only time these situations went south was when anyone from out of town was in the picture, which unfortunately was the case today. 

“Everybody GET DOWN ON THE FUCKING GROUND!” one of the robbers—Chris saw now there were two of them—shouted. This one brandished some sort of assault rifle like it was a toy, but Chris didn't think a toy would look so heavy. 

No one moved.

“Are you DEAF?!” the man shouted. Despite the ski mask he wore, Chris could see spit flying from his lips. 

“Well, did you want us not to move, or to get down?” someone asked.

“Get down and then DON’T MOVE!” the man shouted, punctuating his sentence with a blast of the gun into the unfortunate ceiling. 

Chris hoped there was no one on the roof, but he was soon distracted from that thought by helping the young mom to the floor. Her son, picking up on the commotion around them, looked panicked, so Chris made soothing noises to him. “It’s gonna be OK, little guy, don’t you worry,” he said in a low, steady voice.

“Can you be so sure?” the young woman asked. 

“You kidding?” He knelt beside her, turning his body to shield her and the baby from the robbers’ line of sight. “This is Metrocity—MEGA Man™ or Super Frog’ll be here in like ten seconds.”

“Keep quiet,” the first robber, the one with the shotgun said. 

Chris could sense the man was looming right behind him. He slowly raised his hands higher. “Sorry, man, just helping the lady.”

He felt a foot at the small of his back and before he knew it, he’d been pushed roughly to the floor. “Help _faster_.” He could feel the barrel of the gun brush against the back of his sweatshirt and he froze. For one sickening moment, he was convinced he wasn’t going to see the end of the day. Chris squeezed his eyes shut and waited. Five tense seconds later, Shotgun moved away, and Chris found he could breathe again. 

“I TOLD YOU TO GET DOWN, ARE YOU DEAF, BITCH?”

Chris turned his head in time to see Shotgun had decided to kick the walker out from beneath the elderly woman Chris had spoken to earlier. She stumbled and fell to her knees with a piteous cry that went directly to Chris's heart and _twisted_. Her husband struggled to get to her, but Shotgun pushed him off, laughing and seeming to enjoy terrorizing them both.

Chris felt a wave of outrage well up inside him, like the day before with the punk kid on the street, but bigger—stronger.

“STOP! THAT!” he heard his own voice say. He was surprised to realize he'd gotten to his feet and was pointing at Shotgun. 

The man flinched as if struck, then made jerky movements as he was pulled away from the woman by some unseen force. Once more, Chris was shocked to realize he’d raised his arm, and that the gestures he was making with it were, impossibly, controlling the bank robber. 

“Is that any way to treat someone?” Chris asked. He’d lowered his voice, but it still held a strangely resonant quality in the cavernous interior of the bank branch. “What would your mother say? Your _grandmother_?” 

“I... I... I…”

Chris had been walking slowly toward the man as he spoke, positioning himself between him and the crying woman. “ _Answer me_ ,” Chris commanded.

“My Nana? Don’t tell my Nana, man, she loves me.”

“I’ll bet she does, and here you are disappointing her. Did she teach you to victimize these people? To steal from them, and to threaten?” 

The guy’s lower lip trembled. “No.”

“What did she teach you?”

“T-to be kind?” the guy’s voice broke. “And to… to respect people?”

“Is that what you are doing?”

“No.”

“What are you going to do, then?”

“Stop?”

“And?” 

“Be good?”

Chris lowered his arm and the tension in the man’s body eased. “How? What’s the right thing to do now?”

“Call the police?”

“That’s probably for the best.”

Chris watched him walk over to a loan officer’s cubicle and dial 911. He turned and—

BLAM

Chris staggered as something slammed into him. Looking down, he saw blood blooming from a bullet wound in his shoulder. In the heat of the moment, he had lost track of the second bank robber, who stood across the room now, his rifle pointed at Chris. He took a step forward, then another, crossing the distance between them surprisingly quickly. Chris would swear he could see all the way down the barrel. He raised his arm defensively, and the robber jerked to a stop as if restrained. Chris made a fist and shook it. The guy's entire body reacted as if Chris had him by the scruff of his neck. They looked at each other, both stunned by what was happening. 

“You shot me,” Chris said.

The guy said nothing, too shaken literally and figuratively to speak. 

“What the hell, dude? This is my favorite hoodie.” It was the first college one he’d bought freshman year.

“Sorry?”

“You bet you're sorry, mister! What the heck do you think you're doing?” Chris flinched, groaning inwardly. His mom had always abhorred cursing—what a time for _that_ little lesson to come to the fore. “ _Hell_ ,” he corrected, “what the _hell_ do you think you're doing?”

The guy looked at the gun, at the cowering bank patrons, and shrugged. 

“Well, it's not nice! Look how scared everyone is! That's a baby over there! You want him to grow up with a complex or something? Jeez!”

“I'm sorry!”

Chris nodded at the people cowering on the floor. “Don't tell me, tell _them_.” 

“Sorry, everyone,” the guy said sheepishly.

Chris tightened his fist until the guy made a choking sound, then eased off. “ _Mean. It._ ”

“OK, OK! Look, everyone? I apologize if my actions have caused you any harm or distress today. I was being thoughtless, and selfish, and I didn't stop to consider how what I was doing would land on any of you. My friend and I just wanted some money, you know? To make a music video. We're in a band.” 

“That's no excuse,” someone called from the floor. 

“You're right, god, you're right and it's clear we didn't think any of this through. You have my sincere apologies.”

“This is Metrocity, man. We know the drill,” a second person said. “Most of us had our hands on our heads from the second y'all came in here.”

“We didn't pause to consider that, you know, in the heat of the moment. We're not from around here.” 

“That's pretty obvious,” a third voice piped up. 

“It's also no excuse,” Chris pointed out, shaking the guy again for good measure as the rest of the bank patrons made assenting noises.

The guy squeaked, suddenly mindful that he was being held up by the neck in mid-air by an invisible force. He held his hands up, conciliatory. “You're _so right_. It won't happen again.”

“You bet it won't,” Chris said, releasing his grip on him. He fell to the floor in a heap. “Now make yourself useful—help these people up.” 

“OK, OK!”

Chris could feel a wave of power coursing up through his body once more, its onset not unlike an urge to vomit. “ _And don’t do it again,_ ” he spat out with a grimace. 

The robber straightened his body as he got up on his knees, like a marionette being righted. “I swear I won’t, not ever.”

The feeling the power gave Chris—a low-level thrum, exciting and sickening at once—left him as suddenly as it had arisen. Its absence left him feeling drained and light-headed, with the beginnings of what he knew was going to be a vicious migraine. 

Behind him, Shotgun was tearfully proclaiming into the phone, “Nana? I’m sorry I let you down, Nana!” The other robber approached some of his former victims, attempting to help them to their feet, but they were in a less than forgiving mood. The guy would be lucky to leave the place unscathed.

“Are you all right, young man?” the elderly man from before stood at Chris’s elbow. “You’re bleeding.”

“’m OK,” Chris mumbled, a lie. Now that his adrenaline had eased off, the pain in his shoulder was another thing screaming for his attention. He swayed on his feet.

“We should call you an ambulance.” Sirens could already be heard in the distance; the police would be there in moments. 

“’s’all right,” Chris slurred and walked away on unsteady feet. 

He left through the side entrance, where he emerged blinking and disoriented; his only thought was to get back to the animal shelter since it was closer than home. Halfway there, he looked up to find he’d somehow taken a wrong turn and was in the middle of some alleyway, a row of dumpsters along the wall to one side. He leaned against the brick wall to catch his breath, the movement jarring his shoulder. The pain was bright, intense. His vision swam. 

“Oh, goddammit,” he muttered before passing out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris and Zach's first date--whee!

“Chris? Oh, my god! Chris!”

Chris felt hands on him, turning him over. He groaned. 

“Are you hurt?”

Chris opened his eyes to find a very concerned Zach kneeling beside him. “What? No,” he answered, instinctively not wanting to cause trouble, but he was very surprised to realize it was true. He had no pain in his shoulder where he'd been shot, and some weird instinct told him he'd find no trace or scar. He sat up.

“Is… is that blood?” Zach recoiled as he saw the mess that was Chris’s formerly favorite hoodie.

“What? No, it's uh… tomato sauce. From a meatball parm. Help me up?”

Zach took his hand and helped him to his feet. “What are you doing in this alley?”

“Mugged? Yeah, and I must’ve hit my head or something.” Belatedly, he put a hand to his forehead, pulled it away as if looking for blood. He hoped he was convincing—he’d never been much of a liar, but luckily Zach didn't know him that well. 

“Let's get you inside.” Zach put an arm around Chris to steady him, walking him slowly out to the street. Chris didn't mind going along with the ruse for the time being—Zach smelled really nice, kind of freshly-cut grass. They walked together like that the remaining half block to the animal shelter.

“Pine, what the hell?!” John rushed forward as soon as they were through the door. He looked worried. And pissed. “Where have you been? It’s been hours.”

“I found him in the alley,” Zach said. “He’s been mugged.” 

“Who are you, the mugger?” John laid a protective hand on Chris’s arm.

“What? Of course not! I’m Zach Quinto.”

“And who’s Zach Quinto when he’s at home?”

Zach drew himself up. “I am a professor in the robotics department at the university. Who are you?”

“I’m the boss of _him_ ,” John said, hooking a thumb Chris’s way. “Mugged, huh? Did they get the deposit?”

_Shit, the deposit!_ Chris thought, reaching into his hoodie’s pocket in a panic. He’d been unconscious in that alley for at least a couple of hours—had anyone rolled him? He was relieved to find the envelope just where he’d left it earlier. “Right here.” He handed it to John with relief. “Guess the guy’s a total fail at thievery.”

“Or you just got lucky. Is that blood all over you? Jesus, Pine, you’ll be the death of me.” 

John reached for him, but Chris dodged away. “It’s tomato sauce—from a meatball sub. I guess I spilled a little of it on myself.”

“A little? You look like you’ve been murdered. How are you allowed out of the house in the mornings?” 

Chris sighed. “Hey, do we still have any of those t-shirts from the 5k last fall?” The sooner he changed out of his bloody clothes, the better.

“I think so.” John led the way to the storage closet, emerging a minute later with a large cardboard box he dumped on the floor. “Sorry,” he said after rummaging in it for a few moments, “All we seem to have left are size small.” 

Chris groaned out loud but dutifully took one—it wasn’t as if he had much choice.

“It can’t be _too bad_ ” Zach pointed out. Pushing the glasses he wore up his nose—how had Chris not noticed them before, they made Zach look like a bookish sex god—he reached for a shirt and held it up against Chris. “I think you’d look cute in that.”

“Why exactly are you here, again?” John asked, eyebrow rising. 

Chris could see the veins sticking out in John’s neck as he crossed his arms to flex his biceps. “Zach and I have a date tonight,” he explained before anything escalated. 

This had the opposite effect; John's other eyebrow shot up as he looked Zach up and down more suspiciously. “A date, huh? What are your intentions? Where are you from? You got references?”

“I need credentials to date you?” Zach asked Chris, amused. 

“Did I forget to ask you for a CV? How silly of me.” Chris placed a placating hand in the middle of John's chest. “Easy there, tiger, I'm a big boy now.”

John turned a jaundiced eye on Chris. “You sure?”

Chris recalled earlier events with a shudder. “Unfortunately.” He turned toward the men’s room. “I’m gonna go get changed. Don't kill each other before I get back, huh?” 

Zach and John regarded each other with disappointment. 

Chris locked the men’s room door and faced himself in the mirror. “What the hell are you doing?” he muttered. He unzipped his hoodie and shrugged it off. The t-shirt he wore underneath was tacky with drying blood. The smell of it was gag-inducing, and the sight made him lightheaded, so he pulled it over his head as quickly as possible. He heard a small _TINK_ when he dropped the shirt into the sink; rummaging through it, he found the slug that had been inside him and shuddered. “Well, that's not disturbing at all.” His fingers probed at his shoulder but there was no trace, not even a scar. 

He shoved his ruined clothes into the waste basket then wet some paper towels in the sink to clean himself off. Pulling the t-shirt John had given him on, he looked at himself once more and sighed. _Too small_ didn't quite cover it for this thing. Too tight across the chest (he could _see_ the outline of what little hair he had around his nipples), and too narrow at the shoulders (the neck was pulled alarmingly tight), the shirt was barely long enough to cover his torso. He tried stretching the fabric out--unsuccessfully. “Tcch! Cheap poly blend,” he muttered with disgust and resolved to make John let him order the t-shirts next year. 

When he emerged, Zach and John weren't where he left them. He wasn't sure if that should worry him or not. He wandered over to the front office to find them each playing with a puppy. 

“Hi,” Zach greeted with a laugh when he saw Chris standing there. Mr. Klein was happily licking Zach's face enthusiastically. 

Chris's mood was immediately lifted. “Having fun?”

“Definitely!”

“You didn't tell me he was interested in pet adoption, Christopher,” John admonished. 

Chris didn't recall getting the chance, but he decided to let it slide. “That's how we met, actually. Zach came in last night.”

“And I immediately fell in love with this little guy.” He kissed the pup on its head and cuddled it close. “I know you probably have a hundred applications for him, but I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t have him.”

“I suppose we can see what can be done,” John said gravely, “but you’ll have to pass a grueling set of prerequisites set forth by our adoption coordinator, and he’s a real stickler.”

Zach’s face fell. “Oh no, really?”

“Oh yeah,” Chris agreed. “A real hardass.”

“Don’t suppose you could put in a good word? I really do love him! I’m great with dogs—I had two puppies growing up, and my cat is happy and healthy.”

“Cat, huh?”

“I’m sure my vet would be a reference—Harold’s all caught up on shots. Even some he doesn’t need!”

Chris couldn’t take the desperate note in his voice. “Relax— _I’m_ the adoption coordinator. As long as everything checks out, and you promise to have him neutered, I’m sure we’ll be able to add you to the wait list. Which doesn’t yet exist, by the way, since they’re too little to adopt out yet. So you’ll be right at the top.”

“Oh.” Zach’s smile could have powered a city block. “Then let me take you to dinner and we’ll call it even.”

“No, no. No favoritism shown here. We’ll just go grab a bite like we planned.”

“Fair enough, but uh...”

“What?”

“Is there really no other shirt around here you can wear, because you look like an overstuffed sausage.”

\----

“So… hungry?”

Zach had hung out while Chris and John closed the shelter up for the night, and now the two of them were standing on the street out front. Luckily, John had a flannel shirt in the office to lend to Chris, so he no longer felt like he was some preteen kid who’d outgrown his favorite shirt. 

Chris’s stomach growled loudly. The truth was, he felt like he'd not eaten in days; exerting his new power and spontaneously healing a grave injury seemed to have taken a lot out of him. 

Zach laughed when Chris laid a self-conscious hand on his stomach. “I’ll take that for a ‘yes.’ Is there anywhere good around here? I'm actually pretty new in town so I don't really know.”

“My favorite Mexican place is right around the corner. You like Mexican?”

“Love it!”

“Great!” 

Mexican Village was a tiny neighborhood joint that made more in takeout and deliveries than from its dining room; the food was terrific, the drinks low-priced, and Chris had a special place in his heart for the family who owned it. 

“Chris!” Mr. Díaz greeted him joyfully. “Hola, hello!” He came out from behind the host stand to administer a boisterous hug. 

“Hola, Mr. Díaz!” Chris said happily, hugging back. “Cómo estás?”

“I am well, thank you for asking. We haven't seen you in a week my boy, I was beginning to worry.”

“He's kidding,” Chris said to Zach. “I don't come here _that_ often.”

“We named a platter after you, what are you talking about?” said the waitress as she walked up. 

“Hey, Rosie,” Chris said, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. He caught the scent of green apples and smiled—some things never changed.

“This a hot date?” she whispered into his ear before he pulled away. 

“Kind of,” he whispered back, “how could you tell?”

“You’re glowing.” She winked as he stepped back and led them through the sparsely-populated restaurant to a table near the bar, where two televisions played soundlessly above the bar, one with a baseball game playing, the other the local newscast. 

“This place is nice,” Zach commented as they sat down, taking in the warm browns and greens of the interior, the tiny strings of twinkle lights adorning the bar. “Homey.”

“That's what I like about it,” Chris said. “Mr. Díaz gave me my first job when I was like 15.”

“Were you a waiter?”

Chris rolled his eyes and laughed. “I lacked the coordination for that. I started as a busboy, then did deliveries when I got my driver’s license. It was a pretty good gig.” 

“Yeah, especially since you spent all your earnings on tacos and Jarritos,” Rosie cracked as she returned to the table with two glasses of water. She looked at Zach and winked. “I have never seen a person eat their body weight in tacos before, but that creature sits before you. I hope you are not buying.” 

“No, we’re going Dutch!” Chris said. 

“Big spender,” she said to him, winking. “Drinks?”

“Beer?” Chris asked Zach.

“Sounds good.” 

“Two Bohemias, please,” Chris said. 

“Got it. Be right back.” 

“She's nice,” Zach commented. 

“My first girlfriend,” Chris said.

“Before or after you worked here?”

“Before. Well before, like fifth grade. But then Artie Beaumont moved to town and we were never the same.”

“Did she like him better?” 

“Ha! We both did! But we stayed friends. She's engaged to the bum now, actually,” he said loud enough for Rosie to hear as she returned with two drafts and a generous serving of chips, salsa, and guacamole. 

“Still jealous?” she teased, messing up his hair. 

“Always.” He pulled away and winked at her. “He’s some lucky guy.”

“You’re too cute for your own good,” she said with a laugh before walking away to cover another table.

“I think I’m just the right amount of cute,” Chris said before scooping a generous amount of guacamole into his mouth.

“So do I,” said Zach, the light from the votive candle on the table making his eyes shine. 

Chris could feel his cheeks heating; he covered by sipping at his beer. “This place makes the best guacamole you’ve ever tasted. You should try it before I eat it all.”

“I will. You sure you should be drinking though? I found you unconscious in an alley like an hour ago.”

“I feel fine, not dizzy or anything. No pain, I swear.” Still, he stuck to the one beer since he didn't want to get too loopy on an empty stomach—not on a first date.

They discussed the usual first date things as the evening progressed: favorite bands, films and books, where they went to college. 

“I can’t believe you’re a college professor, you’re only like three years older than me,” Chris said.

“I graduated high school at 14.”

“So you’re what, like an actual genius?”

“Only technically.”

“Very cool.”

“Not so much when you’re a skinny-ass kid living in a dorm at Caltech. It was a little scary at first, but then I found some friends.”

“Aww, I’m picturing little teen you all alone in the big world. I’ll bet you were so cute.”

“If you knew me then you wouldn’t think so.” He passed a hand in front of himself. “I hadn’t quite grown into my face.” 

“Stop it,” Chris said, reaching out impulsively to lay his hand over Zach’s where it sat beside the basket of chips. They both looked up at the same time, eyes locking for a long moment. Chris’s throat was suddenly dry and he wished he hadn’t already finished his beer.

“Hey, can you guys believe this bank robbery today?” Rosie said, breaking the mood. She carried a tray with refills for their drinks on it, but her attention was on the television that hung over the bar as she set everything down. “The First Third Bank over on Main and State—that’s only like three blocks from here!”

“Oh my God, that’s disturbing,” Zach said. As he turned to watch, his hand moved out of Chris’s reach. Chris sighed. 

“I guess you haven't lived in Metrocity that long then, have you?” Rosie said, giving Chris a knowing look that Chris struggled to return with a neutral expression.

“About a month, I guess. Why?”

“It’s just that it’s par for the course, isn’t it?” she said wearily. “All these superheroes we've got—“ she looked around to be sure she wasn't overheard, “it's like they're magnets for trouble. Every one of these idiot supervillains think they're the one who’s gonna take down MEGA ManTM or Captain Freeze, right? So they dream up some huge scheme for taking over the city—“

“Or the world,” Chris added.

She pointed at him and nodded before continuing, “Or the world. So they get up to whatever half-assed scheme they think’s going to put them on the map. But they need help, right, so they put out a call for henchmen.”

“Or ladies.”

“Or ladies, of course, there’s always a moll, isn’t there? But no one in management. So they do their thing, they schedule interviews, there’s a lot of new hires coming to town—good for business. But the vills are always defeated eventually. And before you know it, you’ve got a lot of unemployed minions hitting the streets with no source of income, and what the hell else are they gonna do? Get real jobs?”

“Nope,” Chris said.

“Nope.”

“Well, can’t the superheroes take care of those guys too?”

“You think MEGA ManTM is gonna waste time on some low-level dirtbags?”

“I mean, there’s more than just MEGA ManTM, though?”

She shook her head sadly. “There are two types of supes in this world: top of the food chain ones—your MEGA MansTM and Dynagirls—and the ones who want to _be_ them. And none of them wants to worry about a bothersome little detail like the local crime rate.”

“They don’t like to bother,” Chris put in.

“They don’t like to bother,” she repeated for emphasis. “Because the big guys are too busy posturing to pay attention and the mid-level ones are jockeying for position. Meanwhile, no one’s looking out for _actual_ crimes being committed.”

“What about the police?” Zach asked.

“When they're not busy directing traffic around supes and vills fighting it out in the skies overhead or throwing city busses at each other, the mayor's got ‘em on personal protection duty. I mean I can't blame him—if I told you the number of times a hole’s been blown into the side of City Hall, it’d blow your mind.”

“I think you’re too late,” Zach replied, shaking his head.

“So that’s why I’ve gotta hand it to this new guy for stepping up—we don’t see this too often around here, ya know?”

“Uh, new guy?” Chris asked nervously. He wasn’t so naïve that he thought the display of his new powers at the bank would go unnoticed, he just hoped it wouldn’t have happened so soon. Had anyone seen his face? He was fairly well-known to most of the downtown merchants—had anyone recognized him?

“Yeah, it’s all over the news tonight—there’s no way a little armed robbery’s even gonna make the news otherwise.” She walked back to the bar, located the remote, and rewound the broadcast to the proper part, where Channel 3’s plucky street reporter Zoë Saldana was in the middle of filing her report.

“Thanks, Jim. I'm here at the First Third Bank branch at State and Main, where earlier today a pair of armed men attempting a robbery were thwarted by an apparent Extraordinarily-Abled American whose identity is unknown at this time.” 

The scene segued to a pre-recorded segment, opening on a wide shot of the bank branch, taken before sunset. Chris saw a number of police vehicles parked in the street, lights flashing, accompanied by the reporter’s voiceover: “It was supposed to be a Thursday like any other in this bustling branch of Metrocity’s First Third Bank. But according to witnesses, that busy yet ordered façade was shattered—literally—at approximately 1:00 this afternoon when two men, armed with an assault weapon and a shotgun, attempted to rob the bank.”

The recording switched to Metrocity Police Department Chief Brad Pedersen, delivering an impromptu press briefing; there was a caption at the top that read, “Recorded Earlier.”

“Yeah, uh, at approximately thirteen hunnerd dis afternoon,” Pedersen said in his broad Midwest accent, “two perpetrators—white males—entered the establishment, the uh First Dird Bank over dere, wearing masks and, uh, brandishing automatic weapons and whatnot.” He sniffed. “Dese individuals were intent on perpetrating a robbery of the bank, which dey announced with, uh, with malice aforethought. Dey den made all the, uh, patrons of the financial establishment get on the floor while dey availed demselves of the, uh, the money.” He spat on the ground and hiked up his belt. “It was at dis time that the supe—I mean the, uh, EAA—stepped in and, uh, well he put the whammy on ‘em, basically.” 

The visual switched back to the live shot. “Jim, exactly what kind of ‘whammy’ Chief Pedersen refers to is unknown at this time,” Zoë reported.

“Any indication who the EAA might have been, Zoë?” 

“Not at this time, Jim. From what I've been able to glean from eyewitness accounts, he's no one they were familiar with. Now, I have one of the witnesses here with me now. Ma’am?” She beckoned at someone to come forward and as the camera angle adjusted, Chris saw the young mother he’d helped earlier standing there, looking slightly abashed to be on camera. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Audrey Shackleford.”

“Thank you, and Miss Shackleford—“

“Mrs.”

“My apologies-- _Mrs._ Shackleford, what can you tell us about the EAA who intervened during the robbery this afternoon? Can you describe him?”

She looked vaguely uncomfortable. “You know, I don’t know if I can. Like I told the police, he was tallish? Maybe 6 feet? And young. I think? He had a hoodie on the whole time, so I really didn't get a good look.”

“But you say he helped you?”

She scratched her head. “I mean, he helped us all, really. You know? Like in a big way.”

“Of course,” Zoë said, glancing at the camera. “But you told me earlier that you spoke with him?” 

“Oh yeah, he lent me his pen, you know because the ones at the desk were out of ink? Why are they always out of ink? Anyway, he lent me his pen and then he let me get in line ahead of him. Just, without me asking—I guess he could tell I was in a hurry? And he was really nice to my son, too. Made him laugh.”

“Your son made the man laugh?”

“No, it was the other way around. He made faces to, like, distract him, because he was getting a little fussy. Just—he was so nice and polite, you know? I saw him try to help that old couple, too, when the robbers were being mean to them.”

“You’re referring to the Williamses, right? The elderly couple who were taken away in an ambulance earlier.”

Chris, who’d slid gradually down in his seat through the entire segment sat up when he heard this. “Oh no!”

Zoë turned to the camera as she explained, “It was as a precaution—I understand Mrs. Williams’ injuries were minor.”

“Were they? Oh, that’s a relief. Anyway, that’s when this nice guy in the hoodie got up and he yelled at them, at the robbers, and he told them they weren’t being very polite, and that they had better stop it. And they did! One of them just fell apart crying and had to go call his grandmother, he felt so bad.” 

“And the other?”

“The nice guy—the supe?—he made him go around and help everyone to their feet and apologize.”

“That’s all he did?” Zoë clarified. “He just _talked_ to them?”

“I mean, he was super stern? But also very patient. He just, you know, he was really _nice_ about it.”

Zoë turned to face the camera. “There you have it, Jim. I guess sometimes nice guys really _do_ finish first. Back to the studio.”

“Thank you for that riveting report, Zoë,” Jim said. “Police have released this composite drawing of this ‘Mr. Nice Guy’. Police urge anyone with information about this man to come forward…” A very bad and incomprehensible sketch of a person in a hoodie with his face in shadow filled the TV screen; the lower third on the screen said “Mr. Nice Guy,” much to Chris’s chagrin.

“Hey, that doesn’t even look like m—“ Chris started saying before he could control himself. Rosie and Zach looked over at him, mild interest on their faces. “…many… people.” He swallowed. “I mean, it could be any one of a thousand people, right?”

“I guess no one got a good look at him,” Zach shrugged as Rosie muted the television once more. “But come on, a _new supe_? That’s kind of amazing!”

“Simply thrilling,” Rosie said sarcastically. 

“How can you be so blasé about it?” 

She shrugged. “It’s Metrocity.”

“We grew up here,” Chris explained. “New supes are a dime a dozen.” 

“Well, I hope I never get to be so jaded,” Zach said. “Just living in the same city with MEGA ManTM makes me feel like a little kid again. My whole bedroom was, like, a shrine to him when I was growing up.”

“Oh my God,” Rosie said, patting him on the shoulder kindly, “you’re such an unbelievable dork! No wonder Chris likes you.”

“Hey! Anyway, it’s not necessarily a bad thing to be as jaded as the two of us,” Chris said. He took a swig from his beer bottle, finishing it. “Call it a survival instinct.”

“Only two things happen to fanboys.” Rosie counted off on her fingers. “They either get crushed by falling buildings, or else they become sidekicks.”

Chris shuddered. “And no one wants _that_!”

“Yeah, I guess getting crushed by a building’s pretty bad.”

“I was talking about being a sidekick.”

\----

Luckily, they chatted about less close-to-home topics as they finished eating, like music and favorite writers. Before Chris knew it, Mr. Díaz was not-so-subtly flicking the lights off and on to remind them it was closing time. 

“Ai, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” Rosie said as she cruised past with a tray full of empties, flicking Chris on the back of the ear.

“Sorry Mr. Díaz!” Chris called out, glancing sheepishly at Zach. “I can’t believe it’s 11:00 already!”

“Time sure did fly.” 

Rosie laid the bill down and Chris reached for his wallet… or the place in his back pocket it was supposed to have been. He winced; had he lost it at the bank? Or had someone actually robbed him in the alley. 

“Something wrong?” Zach asked.

“I, uh… forgot my wallet.”

“Guess this really _is_ on me, then,” Zach said, looking pleased.

“I’ll pay you back.”

“Please don’t worry about it. Trust me, I can afford it.”

A few minutes later, they found themselves out on the street, shuffling their feet. “I had a really nice time,” Chris said, feeling shy suddenly.

“Me too,” Zach said. “You want to get a drink somewhere?”

“I probably shouldn’t, I have an early class.”

“As a professor, I want you to know I find it refreshing to find a student so dedicated.”

“Ha! Well, as a student, it’s increasingly difficult to maintain that level of dedication when faced with such an amazing alternative.”

Zach took his hand and held it close, pulling Chris in toward him. His thumb caressed the back of Chris’s hand lightly, making him shiver. Suddenly all of Chris’s attention was on that one spot. “I want to kiss you—may I?” Zach asked.

“Y-yes?”

“You’re not sure?”

“I’ve just never been asked before.”

Zach kissed by degrees, first stepping closer, then leaning in. There was a heart-stopping moment when their breaths mingled, when Chris thought it might not happen and he braced himself for disappointment. But when their lips brushed, Chris let out a small moan, and a moment later Zach’s mouth finally made full contact. Chris raised his hand, fingertips resting lightly at Zach’s throat. He imagined he could feel the other man’s pulse but didn't think he’d positioned his hand properly. It was his own heartbeat, then, which rose in tempo the deeper the kiss got until all he could feel was a drumming in his ears and Zach’s mouth on his. When they parted, he was panting. 

As Zach pulled away, he leaned forward to chase after more, opening his eyes when he realized Zach was no longer so close. 

“Is something wrong?” Zach asked.

“Am I tingly all over or is it just you?” Chris said, breathless.

“What?”

Chris couldn’t explain, so he kissed him again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zach knows how to impress on a date; the boys get to know each other better.

Chris rooted through his mother’s gardening tools for a few minutes before he found what he needed. Heading to the small apartment over his parents’ garage he called home, he sat at the tiny kitchenette, positioned the pruning shears in the gap between his skin and the cast on his wrist, and cut through it with relative ease. He was more surprised than he ought to have been that the break he’d sustained less than two weeks before had not only healed completely, it was also devoid of the scaly skin and muscle atrophy he’d experienced as a kid when he broke his leg. 

Grinning, he flexed his hand into a fist and rotated his arm, and felt no pain. But a sudden flashback of his encounter with the robbers made him pause. He’d used his mind to control their bodies, to manipulate their minds, into doing the right thing. The power he’d felt in those moments had come from within himself. It had not felt pleasant to do it at the time, and even now it made him feel queasy. But he could tell already that the more he used it, the more powerful it seemed to get, and easier to manipulate. He wondered how far he could push it. He didn’t think he wanted to find out.

It had been a crazy day—he hardly believed it could have happened. 

To top it all off, he’d had what amounted to an All Time Top Ten first date with Zach. He touched his mouth lightly at the memory of Zach’s lips on his. It was a while since he last dated anyone even halfway seriously. He told himself it was because school kept him so busy—he really was the type of person to throw himself into his studies wholeheartedly. But he’d been hurt a lot too. Katie liked to kid him that he’d been dumped more times than the trash, and it was true. So lately he’d stayed away from any kind of new relationship.

He shook his head, chiding himself. It had been one date! For all he knew, Zach was using him to get the puppy he wanted. Except Chris didn't think Zach was that kind of person. He had kind, intelligent eyes. And a really great ass.

\----

“Chris,” John called, “you've got a visitor!”

Chris put his inventory list down on the shelf and trotted out to the front to find Zach there waiting for him. “Hey,” he said as a pleasing warmth spread through him. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I thought I'd come to visit my future dog, and if you're up to it, see if you'd like to get some dinner after your shift? Maybe?”

“I would love that,” Chris said happily and reached over to push the door open for him. “Come on back.”

Half the pups were sleeping, the others quietly exploring the back room. “Where is he?” Chris mused aloud until he spotted Mr. Klein trying to make a meal of a blanket that had been left on the floor. “Here he is.” The delight on Zach's face when Chris handed him the puppy made Chris’s heart beat a bit faster. 

Zach held Mr. Klein near his face, chuckling happily as the pup rained kisses down on him. “Oh my god I could get used to this!”

“Isn't it great? I love seeing people and their pets hit it off right away. One of the many joys in this line of work.”

“You're so lucky. How'd you get into this anyway?”

Chris shrugged. “I volunteered in high school and basically never left. John offered me a paying job the summer after I graduated high school and I've been working here off and on ever since. Doesn't pay much, but I like the perks.” 

The puppy squirmed to be let down, then started chewing on Zach's shoelaces immediately. “Stop that, Noah!” Zach said in a baby talk voice, gently wiggling his foot until the pup was sprawled across his foot. “Don't be naughty!”

“Is that the name you've picked?”

Zach looked sheepish. “Yeah, I hope that’s OK, I kinda had my heart set on it. Not that Mr. Klein is a bad name or anything…”

Chris laughed. “He's your dog, man, you name him what you want.”

“Klein will be his middle name.” 

“Noah Klein Quinto—now there’s a good accountant’s name if I ever heard one!”

“Hey, I wanted to check out this place Le Jardin?” Zach said, changing the subject. “It gets really great reviews.”

“That place is pretty fancy.”

“So?

“So I'm wearing jeans and a ripped Dead Kennedys t-shirt, I don't think that works for the dress code there.” 

“Some looks are classics, right?”

“Yeah, classically bad taste. I'll ask John if I can leave early, and meet you there.” 

\----

Le Jardin was the latest hot spot in town, where Metrocity’s elite went to see and be seen. Reservations booked for weeks out—months for the weekends—so Chris was impressed that Zach had managed to get one. Chris had never been, but his dad had been a frequent visitor, orat least MEGA ManTM had. 

Their reservation was at 7:30, which gave Chris just enough time to run home to shower and change. He chose a clean pair of jeans and wandered into his parents’ bedroom to ask his mom if he could borrow something from his dad’s closet. He immediately regretted it. 

“Oh? _Oooohhhjeans_ , Christopher!”

\-----

The restaurant was a vast space with high ceilings and understated decor, bright and airy. The dining room was built to showcase an open kitchen, where a brigade of line cooks and kitchen porters could be seen going about their business, punctuated with the occasional flame-up from the ranges. They were shown to a small table just inside the border to the kitchen, set for two, with white linen and china and crystal. 

“What's this?” Chris asked the hostess. He thought it weird to sit in the kitchen—had Zach gotten the reservation too late to get anything good?

“It's the chef's table,” Zach explained as Chris sat down. “The chef, Simon, is an old friend of mine, so I pulled a few strings. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Mind?” Chris took in the activity around them, the staff moving through their paces like a well-oiled machine. “Of course not, this is so cool. How do you know the chef?”

“The little squirt single-handedly made five years of my research obsolete his freshman year at Caltech, that’s how,” a British-inflected voice behind Chris said. The man who spoke was average height and build, with a fair complexion and a black bandanna tied around his head, barely hiding his thinning, reddish hair. 

“It was hardly my fault you’d gone down the wrong path with your subroutines,” Zach said with a laugh, stepping forward to accept a bro hug from the man.

“True,” said Simon with a wry grin, “but it still hurts to this day that a 14-year old pipsqueak was the one to point it out!”

They slapped each other on the back and Zach turned to Chris. “Simon was my undergrad advisor, he taught me everything I know.”

“Really?” Chris said.

“No,” Simon said, “I just taught him how to focus his ideas. He taught me that I might want to pursue another… calling.” He gestured around the kitchen. “As you see.”

“Well, it seems you’ve done all right,” Chris said.

Simon clapped his hands together with a loud sound. “I have! And it turns out tinkering with food is a whole lot more satisfying. I hope you gents are ready to have your socks knocked off?”

Chris glanced down at his sockless feet, jammed into his father’s oxfords. “I hope you mean metaphorically?”

“That’s up to you,” Simon said with a wink.

Dinner was amazing, from the eggs benedict starter where the egg white was a delicate meringue cradling a perfectly warmed yolk inside, to the cheese course that was like a tour of southern Europe, or so Simon said; Chris was going to have to take his word for it. All of it was prepared by Simon and brought to their table by him personally. Chris wasn’t sure when he’d eaten that well before in his life. 

“Tell me about your work,” Chris asked over their meat course, lamb chops spiced with ras el hanout. “I want to understand.”

“My specialty is affective state recognition with applications in robotics.”

“ _I want to understand_ ,” Chris repeated.

Zach laughed. “I work on ways to teach computers how to read and understand human emotions, as applied to robots. My hope is to someday create robotic aides to people. Like extending the reach of doctors and nurses in remote areas, or helping first responders during natural disasters.”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“You would think. Mostly I sit at my computer working on algorithms. Not very cool.”

“Cool is in the eye of the beholder.”

“As long as that beholder is you, then I don’t feel so bad.”

“That was very smooth.”

Zach’s eyes twinkled when he smiled, making Chris’s stomach do a flippy thing. “Thank you.”

“So what brought you to Metrocity?”

Zach sipped his wine. “Not much worth telling, really. I licensed some tech to a few corporations, made a few bucks. When I heard about an open position at the university here, I decided to go for it.”

Before they left, Simon brought them a final treat: tiny cups of espresso and snifters of cognac. He brought three sets on a tray, and dragged a folding chair behind him that he set at their cozy table for two. “How’d you like it?” he asked.

“Oh my God!” Chris enthused. “I’ve never tried an oyster before! What was the sauce?”

“Champagne mignonette.”

“I think it was the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth!” Both Simon and Zach snorted as Chris’s face—already warmed from being in the kitchen—turned red. “You know what I meant!”

“It was tremendous, Simon—you’ve outdone yourself.”

“Far cry from jerry-rigging some Bunsen burners in the chem lab to make Rice Krispies treats, eh Zach my boy?” 

“I never claimed to be a chef!” Zach defended.

“You never meant to set off the fire alarm too, I’ll bet. It was a good thing I was there to soothe the dean’s temper.”

“I still owe you for that one.”

Chris didn't want to miss out on their banter—he was enjoying the insight into Zach’s past—but he needed to use the bathroom, so he excused himself. 

The restaurant had three gender-neutral bathrooms, all of which were single-occupant, and occupied. Chris stood by, waiting for whoever was inside to finish. A moment later another man approached. 

“All occupied?” he asked. 

Chris shrugged and made affirmative noises. 

“God, that's just typical. You know, I thought this place was supposed to be this _five-star experience_ , but—“

Chris raised his eyebrows, surprised and a little defensive on Simon's behalf. The guy, one of those preppy dudes with slicked back hair that fancied themselves an extra in _Wall Street_ or something, took it as license to go on. 

“You know, the white wine they brought me was way too warm, and when I told the waitress about it all she could do was offer to bring something else or comp it for me. I mean?”

Chris made a confused face; as a mostly-broke grad student, he saw free wine as the opposite of a problem. 

“Right? I mean, where was the sommelier?” He pronounced the last word with an exaggerated French accent, nearly swallowing the 'l'. “And I swear, the sole came out of the kitchen _whole_ with the bones and tail and everything! The waitress had to fillet it right there in front of us. That's just laziness if you ask me.” 

Chris was pretty sure that was the actual point, but just spread his hands and tried to look sympathetic. “Did she do a good job? I mean, was the service good? The food?”

“I guess.” The guy scowled. 

“Then there's no reason to be unhappy. What's really wrong?”

The guy looked shifty for a second then his face kind of crumpled and he said, “It's my dad. He had a heart attack last week and work is so busy I haven't been able to get back home. Mom says it's ok but it's not, you know? My job, it's just so competitive? One sign of weakness and you know that asshole McSweeny'll just swoop in and use it against me with the boss you know, never give up an opportunity to exploit an opponent's weakness, isn't that what Sun Tzu said?”

“I don't think—“

“God, if I don't close this deal my head’ll be on the chopping block for sure! This restaurant is supposed to be so impressive, right? The chef world-famous? A fat lot of good it's doing me, let me tell you. Christ now I'm crying? Jesus, Kyle, get it together man.” 

Chris pulled out the hankie that, thanks to his mother’s insistence on it since he was a kid, he always carried out of habit, and handed it over. 

“Thanks, man,” Kyle blubbered. He took a few deep breaths and pulled himself together. 

“You know, there are other ways to impress people,” Chris said in a soft voice. 

“How?”

“By being decent and honorable and kind. Generous, even.” 

“Y-you think?”

One of the bathrooms opened then, and Chris caught the door as its former occupant left. “I do, Kyle. I do.” Kyle looked momentarily confused, but Chris had no opportunity to speak to him further—he really had to go.

When he returned to the kitchen, Chris beckoned Simon over and pointed at Kyle’s table. “Hey can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, mate.”

“There's this young guy out there, name of Kyle, seated at the table with that older guy over there?”

“Yeah?”

“Kyle’s having a bad week and he needs to impress the guy, make a big sale or something. Think you can go over?”

“Make the kid look good in front of the big client? No problem.”

Chris grinned. “Thanks.” A moment later, he could hear Simon talking up his “best customer, Kyle.”

As they were leaving, Chris and Zach walked past Kyle’s waitress, who was so excited by her $500 tip she nearly knocked two ice buckets over. 

\----

It was cool, the night air a shock that reminded Chris of all he’d drunk and ate. He reached for Zach’s hand to steady himself.

“Something wrong?”

“I probably shouldn’t have had that last brandy.”

Zach smirked. “Lightweight.”

“When it comes to spirits, I am. Whoo!” He took a deep breath of cool air. “Feels good. Wanna take a walk? There’s a park nearby.”

The place was the kind of community park that had a little of something for everyone—a few athletic fields, a small man-made lake, a playground. They made their way over to the swings and took two, sitting facing each other.

“My sister used to bring me here to play when I was little.”

“That’s nice.”

Chris walked his swing back as far as he could and launched himself, pumping his legs back and forth to gain as much height as he could. The supports for these swings were particularly tall, he recalled, which meant he could get pretty high—nearly high enough to feel like flying. “She’d sneak off to those trees over there and smoke with her friends.”

Zach chuckled. “Ulterior motives.” He started swinging himself, though not with as much height as Chris. Chris could feel the air move around him, displaced as their bodies passed each other. It felt strangely intimate: contact without touching.

“Yeah. But she was a good sister, she looked out for me.” Chris remembered an incident when he was very small, involving a runaway school bus and an unexpectedly washed-out bridge. It was the first time Katie’s powers had manifested. Fortunately, everyone on the bus, including Chris, made it out without a scratch. The same couldn’t be said for the bus.

“My older brother did the same. Especially at our high school—I was bullied a little.”

“Your brother came back to school to beat up your classmates?”

“Nah, we graduated the same year.” Zach pointed at himself. “Boy genius, remember? Emphasis on the ‘boy’. I was thirteen when I graduated.”

“Oh yeah.” Chris stretched himself flat, body taut and unmoving, nearly parallel to the ground and stared up at the few stars visible in the sky above the city. “Was it lonely? I mean, being so different than the others? It must’ve been hard? With no one who understood?”

“It was. But my family was very supportive. I always knew I was important to them. It helped a lot.”

Chris sighed; being the only “norm” in his family often made him feel overlooked or unworthy. 

“Did you feel that way?” Zach asked. “I mean, in your family?”

Chris didn't answer. Instead, the next time the swing reached the highest point in its forward movement, he launched himself into the air, landing awkwardly in the grass a few feet away. The swing, no longer occupied, shuddered to an uneven stop, its chains jangling. 

Chris stepped in beside Zach, caught both his swing’s chains in his hands. “Kiss me,” he said with a grin, letting gravity and the swing’s remaining momentum drag his feet. Zach laughed, and that was the end of that conversation.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your time.


End file.
